Affection
by agoodtuckering
Summary: She is not to be owned and she is not to be toyed with. She is to be admired, respected, fought for, protected, and perhaps even loved. But never coveted. She cannot be purchased or possessed. But she desires all of these things from one man and one man only.


"Excuse me?"

His response was sharp, cutting. It hurt. Still, Milady was not one to stand down from a fight. They could fight and fight and fight and she wouldnever back down.

"I said no," she told him. "I work for you. Gladly. I would do anything for you. But who I fuck is my own business."

He practically growled. "No, Milady! It's my business."

Her brow arched, prompting him to close the short bit of distance between them to grab her face with an indelicate hand. "Is my affection for you not enough? My attention?" There was something to his tone. Jealousy, perhaps.

Despite him grabbing her, she wasn't afraid. He admired that about her. "Why?" she asked. "Does it bother you? Does my fucking d'Artagnan botheryou, Armand? Am I your property now?"

Her eyes were twinkling, dancing merrily. She'd caught him in a compromising position now, hadn't she? She knew he cared, in some way. She could either use that information against him or keep that secret close to her heart — whatever happened to be left of it, anyway.

"You are my property, Milady. I took you out of the gutter, and I can toss you back," he muttered, voice low and ragged and harsh. It didn't sound all that harsh to her, though. It sounded as if it was filled with emotion to her. Because she knew him. Because she'd caught him.

"I'm not property," she countered with him. "I'm not something to be owned. And know this, I work for you because I want to. Because there is nowhere else that I'd rather be. Because you do good for the King, for this country, and I hate to see you wasting away as you try to save what's left of it. What can't be bought is something that I have for you — loyalty. Because you've earned it from me. So no, I am not property. I am in your employ and your protection, but I am not a toy. I am not to be purchased. I am a woman, a Human being, with feeling and desires and needs. You cannot tuck it away, you cannot lock it up, and you cannot put a price on it."

She leaned in a tad closer to him, as if to defy him further, but there was something close to admiration in his eyes at the defiance there. "You can't buy me," she added a moment or so later, rather bravely. "And if you want me, all you ever have to do is ask."

That was rather plain and abrupt, wasn't it? If you want me. The words were ringing in his ears. He sighed quietly, his movements stilled. He didn't release her face; however, his grip loosened considerably. He was almost holding her now, with her back to the hallway's corridor. All cold stone, warm hands, and shared breaths. It was so tantalizing.

She was already well on her way to whatever Hell he believed in, wasn't she? So she continued murmuring, speaking to him. "What good are your affections, Armand, if you never plan to do anything about them? What good is your attention when there is no action behind it? Tell me that. Why do you think I find solace in the arms of other men?"

All at once his lips were on hers. He kissed her with a fierce passion, one that rocked him to his very core and left her aching for more. She clung to him, clung to his crimson and charcoal coat and swore she'd never let go.

She'd only ever felt this way for one other man, and she'd prefer not to think about him in a heated moment such as this one. Armand was older, less of a fighter, but infinitely more intelligent. What he lacked for in muscles, he made up for in saving the country. He was cunning and ruthless when the need presented itself, and he was also a brilliant strategist. Villainous, in the eyes of some, but admirable in the eyes of others. And her heart belonged to him.

Her arms wound about his shoulders and she thought, perhaps, that her legs might give out from beneath her. But then he was suddenly drawing away, ending the fervor-filled moment shared between them and trying to find his voice amidst a flurry of ragged, raspy breaths.

"We shouldn't—" It was a weak sentence, trailed off on his tongue, as their eyes met.

Her fingers were white-knuckled around his lapels, trembling unashamedly at the sheer power of her desire, and he seemed to notice. He frowned, expression growing darker. "If we leave now," she began breathlessly, "we can pretend this never happened."

She slowly drew him back to her before adding, "But I don't really want that."

It was a long moment before he allowed a hand to trail higher, brushing along her jaw and turning her head for his lips. He nipped there, at the tender muscle in her neck, before just barely brushing the silk necklace she wore. His mustache was soft against the delicate skin there, his lips warm and inviting and more than welcomed.

"I would never harm you this way," he found himself murmuring, a surge of anger coursing through his veins to think about how Athos had treated her, even as his tender thumb trailed around the soft flesh of her neck, above the scar he knew was there.

Almost comical, almost humorous, in a way, to hear him say such words. He who had his mistress shot in the woods. He who was merciless and unkind to so many others. And yet…

She was beginning to pant, truthfully. Her fingers were lost in his hair, hoping to keep him close. Her breaths were uneven and faltering, and before long he was drawing away completely. Her fingers squeezed his arm, along his bicep, a questioning look finding her features.

He sobered, eyes moving past her and down the hall. "We are no longer alone," he muttered quietly. "And I have matters to attend to. The King can't be delayed. Go. Take care of what needs doing and return tomorrow morning, to my study."

Was he really just going to leave her like this? Apparently so.

He turned, wordlessly casting a long look her way before disappearing in the opposite direction. Her fingers rose to her neck, where his lips had been only moments before, and she sighed. Would it be enough, if they never had another moment together?

Truthfully, no. It would never be enough. Love could never be sated.

Her thoughts were wild, ridiculous, and all too romantic in notion for her liking. She wasn't this way. She never had been. Only once. And it was torn from her with hands that hated and hated and hated. The heart wants what it wants. And mine wants you. Fervently.

She turned then, leaving as well, and gasping for a soft breath. A few guards passed her, neither of whom paid her any mind, despite what they may or may not have seen.

Another day. It could wait until another day.


End file.
